Poems hide, I hear.
I look for them in the creaks and sighs of my old house,
in the cats curled into alphabet letters,
in the morning silence that isn’t silent at all.
I look for them in the golden grasses of the prairie,
in the mule deer that graze by the side of the road,
in the blues, pinks and oranges of a sunrise sky.
I look for them in old notebook entries,
in the words and silences of other poems,
in the dark corners of memory.
Some days, they can’t be found at all.